


heaven can not see this

by Blownwish



Series: please please please let me get what I want this time [8]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Daddy Kink, DaddyJJ, M/M, Pliroy, Some Crack, mild catholic angst, otayuri - Freeform, peripheral jjbella, peripheral vituuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 23:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11473773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blownwish/pseuds/Blownwish
Summary: Jean Jacques needs Yuri's rage and insanity because he can not have his own.





	heaven can not see this

Making love on his wedding night was as solemn as a sacrament. Jean Jacques kissed Isabella and touched her and held her and took her with every ounce of tenderness he could muster. Then, when she was asleep in the snowy white sheets, he tiptoed into the honeymoon suite bathroom, turned the shower head on and jerked off to the photos of he took, last week, of Yuri Plisetsky.

Heaven didn't mind because heaven couldn't be hurt by sin. God just knew how to look the other way and forgive. That's part of what made God, God. People weren't like that, though. Isabella was just a human being. If she knew what he was doing, who he had done it with, she would break. After all, she wasn't God.

Jean Jacques stopped at the one where Yuri came. It was a full frontal shot: his legs were spread, Jean Jacques was balls deep inside him, and his come was squirting everywhere. Yeah, it was hot as hell, but that wasn't what he liked the most about this shot. It was the was the crazed look on Yuri’s face. He remembered the way he moaned through his orgasm, the way his eyes rolled to the back of his head right after this moment, and then the way he snarled as Jean Jacques kept going, pinning him down and pounding into him until he came again.

“ _Mon chaton, mon petit chaton. Tu es à moi_ ,” he whispered to the screen.

He wasn't his, not really. But in that moment he was. And Jean Jacques kept that moment in this perfect picture, that captured that raging, crazy lust. He pumped himself harder, faster.

 _”Tu es à moi!”_ He shivered as he came, hard, all over his fist. His perfect picture, in that perfect, moment. Heaven didn't care, as long as he confessed, and Isabella was asleep. He turned off his phone and stepped into the shower.

++

“Doesn't it bother you? Even a little?”

“I can't believe I'm having this conversation.” Yuri slams his fist on the bar room table. “I'm _eating_ , you ass!”

Things like consideration never stopped Viktor Morherfucking Nikiforov before, and it isn't going to stop him, now. “We all do it. Don't tell me you don't do it, Yurio. Don't lie.”

“I don't talk about it at the table!”

Okay, so maybe it was a little silly to order fried potatoes and steak at a bar when everyone else was just drinking. But it wasn't the weirdest thing ever. The damn place had a menu and a kitchen, and Yuri was starving because he couldn't eat a damn thing at that _goddamn wedding reception_. Otabek told him he would regret it - and he was right, _again_. But, still. No - this topic? Right now? Viktor is doing this on purpose!

“Doesn't anyone here worry about passing gas when they're being intimate?”

He slams his fist down, and this time the table shakes. “For the last time - _NO!_ Only old men with incontinence worry about farting in bed.”

Otabek snorts and looks the other way because Yuri is _right_ and Viktor is _stupid_ and Otabek knows his like he knows the sun will rise. “I'm going to kill you, old man.” Yuri stabs the steak he can't eat. “Kill you in your bed while you fart on your Piggie’s face!”

Katsudon put down his scotch and water and did that sad little face. The one he uses whenever he expects his knight in shining Chanel and Armani to save him. What a loser. “Why are you such an ass, Yurio?” Aw, poor Katsudon. He's always the victim, even when he's not the one who can't eat because this decrepit old man keeps talking about farting during sex.

“Don't get all weepy just because your husband is disgusting in bed, Piggie.”

Viktor rides to the rescue, on queue. “Yurio! Apologize this instant!” Typical.

Otabek puts his hand on his knee. He means well but he's not going to get the results he wants. “Hell, no! I don't talk about disgusting shit at the table. You apologize to me.” Yuri tosses his napkin on the table. “And pay for my dinner”

He crosses his arms. “No. And fine.”

“You're getting me desert, too.”

Otabek gently rubs his fingers against his inner thigh. Okay, that's nice and everything, but no. It still won't work.

“Wait, I thought you said you lost your appetite?” Oh, he's not weaseling out of this one. “No. Buy your own desert. Or get your boyfriend to buy it for you.”

Oh, that does it. Yuri leaps up. “He's not my boyfriend and it's not his fault you ruined my appetite. I want a to go box. I want a desert. I want you to curl up into a little blue ball and roll yourself off a pier so you can just fuck off and die, already!”

Viktor smiles at Otabek. “He farts in bed, doesn't he?”

This time Otabek stands up. He takes out his wallet and counts out enough to pay the entire tab and a small nation’s national debt. “Let’s go, Yuri.”

“You have such a good boyfriend, Yurio!”

If Otabek didn't take his hand and pull him toward the door, Yuri would've been committing homicide.

++

He didn't need to text. Jean Jacques didn't even have his number. He never messaged him directly on Instagram, either. He knew Yuri would show up at his hotel room door, like complimentary Champagne, without fail. It had been happening since Skate Canada, years ago.

He arrived with three short knocks, always pushing through the door and swiping one of those tiny bottles of vodka out of the mini bar, before he stripped off his tracksuit as if he was in a locker room. Jean Jacques liked watching him try to hide his blushing face with all that hair as he presented himself, beautifully naked, with a shrug. The only difference, tonight, was the gold ring on Jean Jacques’ finger.

He combed the hair away from his eyes and smiled because Yuri never could look at him when they did this. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

He still jerked away, just a little, when they kissed. It was new to them, something Jean Jacques had started doing just last year at Worlds in Madrid, when the pressure of winning gold and marrying Isabella was turning into a repeat of Barcelona. He managed to do both, and so he kept kissing Yuri. It was one of his favorite things to do.

His lips were never soft, almost always they were chapped, like Jean Jacques’. The ice did that. But wet tongues and open mouths fixed everything. Yuri sighed into the kiss and let Jean Jacques pull him down on the bed, and hold him. He was still so much smaller than Jean Jacques, but not delicate - no - _strong_ , and he grabbed at his hair, his arms, his back and _demanded_.

Jean Jacques liked that. ” _Mon chaton,_ tell me what you want.”

“Don’t make me say it, you ass!”

Jean Jacques wished he could bite his neck, mark him up, and claim him. Because Yuri was _his_ , right now. _”Tu es à moi. Mon chaton.”_ He breathed this into his ear and nipped his lobe. “Say it, the way you know want to say it for me.”

He moaned and Jean Jacques laughed because Québécois always did this to him. “Don't make me…” But he would. He had to, because he wanted to, despite everything that told him not to. Just like Jean Jacques, those things just made him want to, even more. “Jeh Jeh…” Yuri wiggled against his hand as Jean Jacques teased him with the slightest ghost of a touch along his inner thigh. “Oh, fuck you Jeh Jeh - “

“Say it, _chaton_. What you want. Out loud. And don't use that name.” Not JJ. JJ was for the ice. There was no _King JJ_ , here.

“I want you to touch me and fuck me, okay? With a please?” It came out in a delicious, desperate rush. Yuri still wouldn't look at him, even when Jean Jacques held his chin and made Yuri face him.

“Please, what?” He needed to hear it.

He whispered.

“Look at me when you say it.” _Look, because heaven wasn't looking._

And he did. His eyes were wide, so wide, and Jean Jacques could see everything in those eyes. “Please, Daddy?” All the raging, needy insanity Jean Jacques could never show. He wanted to see it. Had to see it. Yuri growled. “Daddy…”

It was like pinning down a hellcat. Yuri bit and scratched and wrapped his arms and legs around him and bucked against his body. “That's it, _Chaton_. That's it… show me who you really are.” There was more lube on the sheets than his fingers. Yuri grabbed his hand and shoved Jean Jacques’ two fingers in, fast, hard, and angels would have wept if they saw the way Yuri moaned and ground and cursed in Russian as Jean Jacques finger fucked him. “You're a dirty little kitty, aren't you?” Jean Jacques propped his ankles over his shoulders and smacked his ass. “Dirty little kitty needs his Daddy to fuck him. Right… there.”

“Hurry up! Damn it!”

Jean Jacques twisted his wrist and worked him, pumped him, slapped his hand away - because the only person who was going to touch Yuri right now was him. “Mine!” He meant it. All of him. All the fear he was afraid to feel, all the anger he could never express, all the desire he could never have - he wanted it from Yuri.

And when he held him tight, when he took his mouth, and fucked so deep and hard inside him, the devoured it all until Yuri threw his head back and wailed: _”Fuck me Daddy! Oh, god! Keep fucking me!_ ”

++

Otabek is tired. “Why don't we just go to bed?” Yuri knows he's going to be gone by the time he wakes up in their hotel room, probably swimming laps in the hotel pool and working out whatever he's got rolling around in his head after the drama known as JJ’s Wedding.

He knows. Of course he _knows_. Otabek isn't an idiot. He knows and he says nothing, just like he says nothing when Yuri refuses to call Otabek his boyfriend. He silently suffers through Yuri’s thoughtlessness with a leather jacket shrug.

“I can't believe Viktor.” Yuri still hasn't touched his steak. It's cold and the potatoes are a waste. There is nothing worse than cold fried potatoes. “Why did you pay? You know he probably pocketed some of your money.”

Otabek is already in his shorts and he falls into the bed. “I don't care.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “But I care. He takes advantage of you.” He takes advantage of _everyone_. Yuri hates that.

Otabek holds out his hand. “I don't want to talk about Nikiforov or LeRoy. Just come here.”

“Who's talking about him?” He can't say his name. Not with Otabek. “I'm talking about that old man. Fuck him and his farting ass.”

Otabek drops his hand.

“I mean… he's so annoying. He acts like his relationship is so perfect, right? Like he doesn't spend every June in Chris’ little chalot while Katsudon sits in Hatsetsu babysitting his dog while he fucks that pervert.”

Otabek groans into his pillow.

“And he's such a jerk! Did you see him give that speech today? Like he was the best man? And all he could talk about was that _Love and Life_ shit, like he invented them?” Yuri dumps his fries in the trash. The streak falls in, too. _Fuck!_ At least he has his cheesecake. Still! “Fuck!”

“Are you coming to bed or not?”

Yuri flaps his arms. He's hungry and he's pissed and he's going to get fucking _wasted_ on about five or six or seven of those little vodka bottles in the minibar before he even lets himself lay down. “I really, really wish he'd drop dead. I mean it. Dead.”

He really, really wishes he wasn't here. That he didn't see that ceremony. That he didn't have to stand next to Otabek while he watched - he watched - he watched -

No. It was no big deal. It was just some stupid religious nonsense. It wasn't changing anything, not that it even mattered. Because it didn't. That wasn't why he wanted to drink.

Oh, fuck. This was that Grey Goose shit he always had when he and JJ -

“Don't drink, Yura.” Two warm hands are on his shoulders. Otabek, somehow (how?) managed to surprise him. He's right behind him, kissing his neck. “You don't need that.”

Yuri unscrews the top, but Otabek takes the bottle out of his hand and - holy fuck! - throws it across the room. It's just plastic. It doesn't break. But still.

Still.

“Beka?”

“When is it going to end?” His voice is soft. His voice is low. His voice is _angry_.

Yuri swallows hard. “He's married.”

“Yeah.”

Yuri turns and sobs as Otabek wraps his arms around him. “I'm sorry, Beka! I'm so sorry!”

“Shhh.” He kisses his hair, his eyes, his lips as he keeps sobbing. “I know.” He knows. Even that - he knows. “It’s okay.”

He lays him down on the bed, kissing every part of him like he's something precious, then bends his head, and his mouth is so warm. So wet and warm and then he sucks - Yuri combs his fingers through his hair and keeps sobbing until he comes, because he knows there is a room in this hotel, a room where he is not, a room where he wants to be instead, and Otabek loves him anyway.

“It's okay, Yura.”

Yuri curls into his arms and wishes Otabek hated him, instead. “No, it's not.”

++

He turned her over and pretended it was Yuri. He couldn't help it; it was the only way he could make himself get hard. He didn't even come. He got off of her the moment she was finished because she was too round, too soft, too _sweet_. He needed fire and rage.

He needed Yuri.

“You okay, babe?” She couldn't see him in the dark, but she had to know he didn't come. They'd been together long enough.

He sighed. “Sorry, I just - I don't want to hurt you.” He lied. He lies all the time and he tells himself it is to protect her. But she knew he was lying, now. She knew because he can barely bring himself to touch her, anymore.

“The doctor said it's alright.” She put his hand on her belly. “You won't hurt the baby.”

He did his duty, he made a child - a son - who would carry on the family name, gave his wife a home, and yet he felt as if he had done everything wrong. This was what the Church commanded her flock to do, to live this life as god intended, despite any sin they might commit. God forgave him every time he sinnned, because God was perfectly merciful. Jean Jacques closed his eyes. That mercy gave him no peace. He needed something else. Someone else. Someone angry, someone crazy, someone who made those things beautiful.

There was always next season.


End file.
